


a little life in you yet

by silverfoxflower



Series: Quiet Days in Kaer Morhen (Geralt/Eskel and Geralt & Eskel comment fics) [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Drunkenness, Gen, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: They spoke of their childhoods just once, him and Geralt, deep in their cups and reminiscing as old men did. For they were old - despite the appearance of their bodies - old in their bones and the weariness of their gaze.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Quiet Days in Kaer Morhen (Geralt/Eskel and Geralt & Eskel comment fics) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173686
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	a little life in you yet

They spoke of their childhoods just once, him and Geralt, deep in their cups and reminiscing as old men did. For they were old - despite the appearance of their bodies - old in their bones and the weariness of their gaze.

Geralt had had a lonely upbringing, making friends of toy soldiers in the middle of the woods, coddled by his druid mother. Eskel had had the opposite - a dozen swarming siblings, dirtied knees and the ever-constant din of competition. 

In the mountains, the soil was thin, the ground was rocky and life was hard.

“You remember her,” Geralt asked, “your mother?” He was sprawled by the fireplace, barely propped up by the wall at his back. The bottle of White Gull hung from his fingertips, dangling between his knees. Somewhere in the darkness, Lambert turned over and snored.

Eskel motioned for Geralt to pass him the bottle before answering. 

“Not much,” Eskel said, taking a long drink. “A song.” He both enjoyed and despised speaking of his past, the unsettled pain it stirred, like pressing an old bruise. 

“Sing it,” Geralt said, and Eskel complied, humming a few off-tune bars.

“Your bard I am not,” Eskel said, and Geralt shook his head, laughing.

They traded the bottle again, which was growing low. They had begun by using cups, but that seemed too much effort now. After all, Geralt was just beside him, and they had shared more than White Gull, in all their years.

“You been back there … since?” Geralt asked, his gaze drifting somewhere far away, and Eskel knew that he would likely as not forget this conversation in the morning. 

“Yes,” Eskel said. When he was younger, when he thought he could bear it, he had followed the Jaruga to the southern foot of Craag Ros. He had thought. Well. He had thought he would just _know_ when he got there, that the village of his home would call him back like a beacon. 

Instead, he had wandered the wilds for two weeks, until his coin ran low and his patience ran thin. He had encountered the hill-folk a handful of times, but under their thin, suspicious stares could never develop the right question in his mind, to translate into the words in his mouth. to _ask_. 

How to ask the location of a nondescript, half-remembered _impression?_ How to ask to be returned to a song?

Vesemir probably knew, of course, but it all felt too much and not enough at once to bother him with. In the end, Eskel had just … left. 

And he would never tell anyone this story, not even Geralt, who was insensible now and listing to the side. Eskel caught him by the sleeve before he would have knocked his head into the cold stone floor. 

“You need to go to bed,” Eskel said, frowning at the slur in his speech. “I need to … go to bed.” 

Geralt answered him with a snore. 

Eskel considered climbing to his feet, but the spinning in his head dissuaded that thought. It was. It was warm enough by the fire. Companionable, with the deep breaths of his other Wolves nearby. Eskel eased himself into a comfortable spot on the carpet and closed his eyes, the White Gull spinning from his fingers, rolling a few paces away from the fire before it stopped. 

_Home_ , Eskel thought drowsily. When did he stop thinking of it as the press of children in a too-small shed, as the scabby brush and rough ground beneath his bare feet, as the smell of bread and a warm mother’s apron as she sang him to sleep? 

And when did he start thinking of it as this: a warm fire on a cold night, Geralt’s leg pressed against his own and Lambert’s breath soft in the corner?

Who could say? Eskel released one last sigh and allowed himself to slip into oblivion. 

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic)


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